


Rolling with the Punches (with the Waves)

by xaviul



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fantrolls, Minor Character Death, Political Nonsense, tl;dr: A murder-mystery set in space with court intriques aplenty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:11:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaviul/pseuds/xaviul
Summary: You hadn't thought much of this mission- you were supposed to travel to space, disrupt and crush whatever stirring rebel forces thought they would be safe in the vastness of space, and go hive.If only it was that easy.Vadaya Urvata is many things: a Soldier, a cuspblood, a troll. But suddenly he finds himself as a pawn on a sprawling chessboard of powers far higher than his own. But if he wants to complete his job and escape with his skin, he'll have to learn how to play the game- and quickly.





	1. The First Dive Is Always The Hardest

Your race, your species, was an arsenal.

You were weapons, tools, a job and a troll for any situation that your Empress might need of you. Oh, you were much more than that, certainly- all of you were. But the truth of your hatchings had always been to serve, no matter how some might try and rebel against it.

Trolls were soldiers, conquerors, beings that thrived off the subjugation of those who would defy you. But you were also servants in the end, bending knees and bowing horns to the troll who held sway over you all.

It’s a knowledge that lays heavy in your mind now, as you feel the collar tighten around your neck, a hand on the leash pulling you where you were supposed to go. Where the Empire needed you. Your vessel had been harboured in the bays of the worldship you’d been assigned to for only hours now, but you knew there would be no rest soon for you.

You weren’t here as anything but a tool. The uniform you wore, your presence here, was all because the Empire was putting you to the use it had built you up for. A Scimitar was meant to stomp out dissent, to relentlessly seek out and crush those who would try and disturb the natural order of society, and that was what you were here to do.

If only it was so simple.

But even symbols of the Empress’ authority had obligations. There were societal measures that needed to be upheld, the bonds of diplomacy that helped keep the balance you fought for. So after your ship had been cleared for docking and you had sent all the necessary paperwork through for your arrival, you weren’t surprised when you stepped out to the shuttle port and found a troll making a beeline for you.

You’d been expecting a Legislacerator first, someone to go over the crimes that had brought you out so far. Details had been sparing in your briefing, waved off as something you would have access to once here. All you knew was that this wasn’t a new issue, just one that had come to a boil quickly enough that it needed to extinguished.

But it’s a seadweller that has the crowd parting around her like a school of fish to a shark, unmistakable by anyone. Seadweller fashion is an artform all its own once they leave Alternia, trading the physicality of planetside life for something more subtle. You’ll never be able to understand all of the particularities of it, nor would you want to, but everyone knows what it represents: status.

It’s how you know even before she gets close that this is a newer member of the ship’s shoal, not yet deemed suitable for anything but the tasks that more experienced members set for her. All it takes is a glance at what she wears for anyone to know she’s among the lower ranks.

Her dress, though extravagant among the crowds, lacks the volume that the upper echelons would wear even on land in a strict show of her placement. The jewelry she wore, though eye-catching, wasn't as ornate- you would guess that most of the larger gems that glittered in the artificial light were grown from a lab, not mined from one of the many resource planets that dotted the Empire. And the statement pieces she wore just sealed it, the cuffs that hid the edges of fins that had mostly been carefully pruned back and had their edges hidden behind shells of gold.

She was lesser, a nobody of her shoal- but her blood still meant she was higher than you, a mere diplomat to the worldship. You stood at attention as she drifted over to you, her violet eyes appraising as they raked over the crest of your position on your shoulder, the insignia of the Corps that was your shield. "The Court is in session," she tells you, her voice distant- bored, perhaps, at playing messenger. Most do chafe under the yoke of subservience that the shoal expects from its youngest, but her face doesn't give any impatience away. "I've been sent to collect you, so that the Princeps might see what the Empire has to offer."

At least she doesn't just spill your reason for being here. There are eyes on you, ears- there are trolls that have suddenly found reasons to linger, trying to figure out just what one of their highest is doing here among the lesser. Your own fins probably curtails some of the questions on the other troll's minds, but in their place more are no doubt forming. The populace is a gossip machine whenever they find themselves with something new in their world. "I understand," you tell her, keeping your voice even. No need to show your surprise at this turn in events. If your sweeps have taught you anything, it's to never show weakness around a seadweller. Any blood in the water would have them on you like a shark.

As if she can sense your thoughts your courier smiles, just wide enough to show perfectly pointed teeth. "This way, then," she instructs, and turns to take off without a glance back at you. At least, that's what she would probably like you to believe. The careless dismissal is a display like everything is when it comes to trolls in the shoals, but you'd put money on her knowing every move you dared make behind her.

Not that it matters. Your business isn't with her, but with the shoal. A tiresome step, perhaps, but an important one. The worldship was owned by the Princeps, second only to the Dread Empress herself. Even the highest of her ladies would watch their steps with such a troll on their territory. And you were no Lady.

You fall in to line behind her, the three steps that's customary. Close enough to hear her if she spoke, to watch her- but far enough away that if either of you turned upon the other, you had time enough to react. And it isn't as if you have to worry about losing her in this crowd, with the way it still moves out of her way- and your own, now. You've been elevated in the public's eye already, you realize with a spark of annoyance. Your arrival will be talked about among the lower castes, spreading like a wildfire that would give whoever you were sent here to stop ample warning.

A foolish play on the Princeps part, to mark you out so publically. But seadwellers rarely cared about such fine details of order when they were so focused on the larger goals. There's nothing you can do about it, and so you snuff out that flame of irritation as quickly as its grown.

She leads you towards the higher end of the shuttle docks, the crowds thinning. But you can watch the organized chaos that comes with any shuttle service of a ship so large as this one, the way that there's an Olive bruiser shoving Maroons and Bronzes in to the crowded rust shuttles until it seemed more like a can of sardines than a transport for trolls. As the crowds thinned so did the shuttles. The drop off from the rowdy and busy Olive shuttle to the Teals is staggering- only a handful of them, most dressed in the bright reds of the Legislacerators, stood waiting for the next shuttle to pull in to their area. The indigo shuttles are idling, empty of any sign of life, and you moved even further past it. Usually it was your ride, but you didn't give it a second glance tonight. Of course the Indigo shuttles wouldn't have the clearance to get close to the Seadweller Court.

The shuttle waiting for the two of you is sleek, modern- a far cry from the dingy scraps of metal that the rustbloods were being packed into. There's a troll waiting at the entrance as your guide sweeps in, his uniform piped in high Olive and watching the both of you as warily as a squeakbeast would watch a meowbeast.

"Is there anything that I can get for you Madam? Sir?" The Olive asks, and it's only then that the Seadweller seems to take notice of him. Even a side-glance is enough to make him freeze, but then she's looking to you with that same assessing look from before.

"I was told that you'd be Indigo," she says your caste like it's a foul taste in her mouth, and it's only practice that keeps your fins from pinning at the sound. "I am," you assure her, but you know that isn't enough. She expects answers, they always do. "I am a cusp. Enough for the additions you see." And the ones she doesn't, but you prefer not to mention your gills. After all, they're useless in the water. What use would it be to tell her?

Besides, you doubt she wants to listen to it. Her curiosity sated for now she dismisses you with only the merest tips of her head, attention back to the Olive. “A respirator for my guest, then- and a plate of refreshments.”

He squeaks out his affirmation, but even as he rushes to fulfill her orders she’s moved on. The shuttle is spacious, especially when it’s only the two of you on board, the space punctuated by seats in which to sit for the ride. Your guide sits as primly in to one as if it was a throne and you follow her lead once again as you take the one closest to her, thinking again of the other shuttles. None of the lowbloods had anywhere to sit- it would have made them take more space. How many injuries must happen in them a night- how many deaths?

You distract yourself from it by glancing up at the display panels that dot the shuttle, listing the arrival times that it will take in areas around the ship. On other shuttles it would be a scrolling list, so many places for so many trolls to go- but here there was only the Courts, unless one of the violets requested to be brought elsewhere.

The shuttle takes off with just the barest sense of movement, and once you’ve reached the set speed the servicetroll reappeared. One hand balanced a tray of vibrantly colored hors d’oeuvres that had the seadweller perking up- the other carried the sealed box that you certainly weren’t excited for.

He bows as he sets the tray between the both of you, but he’s back to being just another piece of the furniture to your companion as she selects a bite-sized morsel off a plate. It's alien-food, something from a nearby colony that's been approved for troll sustenance. The silvery blue sheen of it doesn't strike you as that alluring, but it's shaped close enough to an Alternian prawn that it looks edible enough. You hadn't thought to research the sorts of foods you could expect from this worldship until now, but you find yourself regretting that decision.

The box is presented to you, and you aren't surprised at what you find inside of it. It's a common model of respirator for the times when a landdweller has to go underwater, less fussy than the diving gear that requires helmets and maintenance. Cracking open the seal of the box will bring the living respirator out of its stasis, ready to take in the water and act as a functional set of gills would, passing breathable oxygen to you through the vents of its stomach. The claspers of the crab-like respirator were carapaced on the outside, but the inside were spongy enough to create an air-tight seal around the lower half of your face. You'd be able to breath for this visit, but not talk. But then you doubt you would be expected to, in a Seadweller Court.

They were probably just curious to see who it was that the Empire had sent. The worldship belonged to the Princeps and even though he had been the one to ask for aid it didn't mean he didn't want to be kept in the loop. You were an interloper even if you were an invited one, and he wanted to make sure you remembered who it was that had true dominion over his territory.

You'd seen it in the past, this sort of posturing, and though you could understand the blow to a leader's pride that they had a possible rebellion brewing in their own halls you didn't like how they felt they had to take it out on the troll who did the job for them. You were more than aware that he could cull you, if you stepped out of your place as a member of the Corps- it might be a bit messy on his end, but it would eventually be cleared away from his name. In the hierarchy of the Empire's needs, he was simply higher than you were.

You weren't fool enough to ever forget that. And that's what kept you from taking any of the appetizers from your blood superior until she seems to remember you exist, gesturing towards the tray with a toothpick recently stripped of its tidbit.

"Please, take advantage of our Princeps' hospitality. He knows you had a long voyage to us." You know the difference between a request and a demand, and this was definitely the latter. Fortunately, you hadn't eaten a recent meal, too busy with navigating your docking and your clearances to think of a meal. It makes the unfamiliar looking food in front of you a bit more tempting, and you reach forward to delicately take one of the creatures you'd seen her eat before, raising it with a tip of your head.

"Thank you." It's always best to err on the side of caution when it comes to manners with a seadweller- besides, you might as well use your words while you still could. You slide the prawn-expy in to your mouth, surprised when your teeth pierce through a thin shell and the gooey insides practically bursts in your mouth. The problem with alien food is just how alien it can be, you muse as you chew. It's a mix of flavors you'd never expect from an Alternian food, tangy like a grapefruit with the faintest hint of meat, like a unfamiliar cousin to beef. But as you swallow you can admit why it might be a popular food among the upper levels of the ship- and not just for the familiar shape. It's a taste of the aristocracy you probably won't have again, why not enjoy it?

You try a few more things- a rubbery substance you think must be the flesh of something that tastes too sweet for you, a sticky clump of egg-like bubbles that disintegrated in your mouth. Enough to seem grateful for the offer and not enough to seem greedy. You know if the Princeps is curious enough he'll ask about this travel to his court and your companion is as much spy as she is guide. It's part of the reason why you never look forward to missions that take you off of Alternia proper, where there were no large territories reigned over by one troll the way that ships often were. You had to respect all the rules here, even the most inane, and that meant kowtowing to the royalty if they wished it from you.

You've pulled back from the tray, an explanation of how you couldn't eat further on your lips when there's the hiss of an airlock sealing from the front of the shuttle. You pause, noting that the Oliveblood who had been hovering awaiting any further requests has vanished- and then the shuttle is flooding.

It's a slow intake of water, a warning to the occupants now as it rushes to cover the floor. "You should think about putting that on," your companion suggests with a gesture at the respirator, twisting in her seat to watch you. You don't know what is so fascinating, but then you can't imagine she's that old- you might be the first landdweller she's brought to the Court.

The water is rising to your ankles now, the scent of salt strong in the air as you break the stasis seal and pull the box open. The respirator is still sluggish when you strip it out of its prison, the carapace cold in your hands as you flip it over. There's a pictured guide on the box on how to properly wear it, but this isn't your first experience with them- you rub your fingers in a stroking motion over the raised spine of its carapace until it relaxed in your hand and released its claspers from their sealed position over its midsection, and then you lift it up over your face.

As soon as your fingers stop on its spine, it locks itself back into place. The sensation is just a bit of suction against your face, faint enough that you know you'll forget all about it with a few moment to adjust. The claspers and the midsection feel like smooth silicone, but you can feel the way that its gills are working in front of your nose and mouth, the flex of pseudo-muscle that makes them flutter. You test the seal with a quick tug at the respirator, but it stays stuck against you in a firm seal- it won't relinquish its grip until you stroke the spines once again. Sure that you're safe from the water now, you give your guide a thumbs-up so she doesn't go for the emergency water-lock.

The water rises quickly now that it’s gained a foothold, lapping up against your knees, your waist. If you were a lower caste, you might have been worried over the temperature. But it’s warmer than you expected, mimicking tropical waters you imagine- it’s not much cooler than the air had been as it creeps higher up, a persistent flow that soon submerges you entirely.

You keep calm as the respirator switches over, gills locking as it takes in the first bit of water. It’s only a few seconds without air before it relaxes to fill the cavity with air, and you take controlled breaths as you acclimate. Being a cusp comes in handy at times, you have to admit. You aren’t stung by the salt in the water as you blink to adjust your eyes to the change, and other than the relative warmth of the waters it’s comfortable to you, in a way.

You can feel your gills trying to work, pinned under the newly sodden weight of your scarf. As much as they can work- they’ve always been strictly decorative. But if this trip down has done one thing good, it’s saving you from having to soak your gills.

Now that you’re underwater, the shuttle’s movements are more noticeable. The water drags on it more, so you can feel the gentle decline as you start to ascend to what must be your destination. The troll next to you seems impatient to be done with her job and it’s only now that you realize you didn’t even ask her for her name.

“Do you do this a lot?” She asks you suddenly. You don’t know what she expects you to do- you can’t exactly answer, but she’s back to watching you, fins perked and interested. She obviously expects something, so after a moment you give her a shrug and a shimmy of your hand to show you’re somewhat experienced. If she thought you knew fin language just because you were equipped with them, she was in for disappointment.

Not that she comments on it, thankfully. Your vessel takes that moment to finally set down, a deceleration you can feel as you come to a stop with only a momentary flash of relief. The sooner this was over, the sooner you could get to work on what really mattered.

The door opens with no fanfare and your guide rises as easily as if you were still on land, skirts billowing around her. It’s elegant down here, with the water carrying it around her like the fabric had a life of its own. But then, that’s the point of it.

You don’t have anything nearly so suited. You jacket was meant to resist the spray of blood, not the relentless press of hundreds of thousands of gallons. You’re soaked to the bone by the time you stand up, and it’s not a comfortable sensation.

But there’s nothing to do but weather it, even if it hampers your movement as you follow after her as she kicks up off the floor and swims out of the shuttle. This is her domain, and you can’t help but feel like the interloper you were as you tried to follow after her.

You aren’t familiar with the water, you weren’t built for it. The metal that encases half of you right arm, the two metal fingers of your left, they just feel like they’re weighing you down in this environment. You’re sure you’re slow as you swim through the water after your guide, down the shuttle stairs and onto an unfamiliar sight.

A worldship was a massive work of technological marvel. There were only ever a handful of them ever operational, sent out like this one to oversee areas of your vast Empire that remained incapable of sustaining Alternian life. Not every area was worth the hassle of terraforming when you were always expanding outwards- and so the worldships had been designed, large enough to support a planet’s population while remaining semi-mobile, crawling across the universe in comparison to the quickest ships of the Fleet.

And though each was built with the Empress’ blessing and support behind it, there had always been a line that took up the task of building the collosal ships. They took hundreds of sweeps, if not thousands- it was only in a race like your own that such a thing could ever have been conceived, let alone built. And that line that shouldered the burden did so with this victory in mind. A veritable planet to rule over, with only the Empress to call them to heel. It was a legacy for their entire line, a living history that would extend far past them.

The _HMS The-Majesty-of-the-Crash-of-the-Waves-Against-the-Merciless-Rocks_ was one of the finest specimens in the armada. But knowing that and seeing it are two different things.

It’s stone under your feet, stretching out into a courtyard that would never be possible on most smaller ships. You can't imagine the weight of it- probably mined from one of the colonies and brought in brick by brick, shining with veins of pink and black through the white. Your guide swims on and you follow again, noticing now how she has to keep her moments short to make sure she doesn't get too far ahead.

It's more visible down here than you would have expected. There's recessed lights below your feet and you imagine there must be more light sources above you as well. But you don't want to gawk about like a tourist, nor do you want to irritate the seadweller by slowing her down even further. You press on until she stops ahead of you, turning to watch you with a look that's nothing but smug pride. "Welcome to the court, Scimitar."

She's standing at the lip of an edge, and as you pull up beside her you realize you've been thinking of the court like it might have been a landdwelling place. You were expecting tall spires, but why would there ever be such a thing? Water drew always downwards, and so did the court.

It's beautiful, from what you can see of it. The same marble is sculpted into the forms of unfamiliar trolls, sea-life. It's a chasm that goes down further than you can see from here, but before you can wonder for too long about just how far down it must go, the seadweller drops down, paddling down with sure strokes. But if there was ever a part of swimming you excelled in, it was sinking.

The water is so clear that as you swim down with her, you can watch the wall nearest to the edge of the lip. The marble is punctuated not only with statues, but with what must be the hives of the court. You can't imagine how spacious they must be here, spoiled even compared to most seadwellers who were assigned to ships. In smaller vessels, even seadwellers had to give way to the cramped quarters somewhat- but here, with the spacing in between the doors that you can spot, you imagine their shiphives are still more ample than many wriggler hives.

But all they do is watch and talk, as far down as you go. By the time you reach the bottom, you've almost become used to the feelings of eyes on your back- almost. It's never wise to get too comfortable with seadwellers, the same as you wouldn't trust a wild animal when you had a bleeding wound. You'd rather take the animal than a seadweller, but here you were.  
Each hive has its outcropping of marble in what you imagine is a substitute for a lawnring. You're careful with your examinations- not all of them are empty, and usually those that weren't had residents that were already watching you as you swam down. But there were signs of the trolls that lived there on their ledges- fields of cultivated kelp in some, a lounging chair on another. You both pass close to one ledge and from the corner of your eye you watch the two trolls on it. They're sitting with their legs dangling in to the open water, close and familiar enough that you imagine they must be moirails- especially when one dips in to whisper into the other's fin and doesn't get even a warning snap of teeth in return. They're watching you too, looks sly as they speak words you can't hear.

One thing you had noticed was that most of your watchers were lesser members of the shoal. Not important yet to join the Court, but too important to be out mingling with the rest of the ship. Shoals could get so isolated from the rest of society, and it seemed that this shoal was one of them. But with the numbers of seadwellers that the worldship could support, you can understand why- there had to be at least hundreds of them here, living in luxury among the stars. They were royalty and they were aware of it, and if the excess rubbed you the wrong way- well, it was because you weren't one of them.

You weren't alone here, you notice as you're led along the marble floors. Down here, your guide moves almost as if she was walking on the ground- but water resistance is just a mild thing for a violetblood. You found yourself trying to mimic the sure way she pushed herself forward with her feet against the marble, realizing now just why thin slippers were the fashion down here- she's able to twist and flex her feet to their full mobility, while your booted feet just can't seem to grip the floor the same way. Once more you feel the clumsy fool, and it's getting harder for you to put it out of your mind.

Focusing on the environment is a good distraction. You're heading towards a large tunnel-mouth, edged in ornate and gilded forms- waves, pearls, and the forms of fish. It's lighted here too, the glow above you reflecting off the mother-of-pearl that lines the massive tunnel. It’s almost dizzying, punctuated only with murals made out of countless beads of pearls in the same wave-like designs, all sorts of colors of the gemstone used for the swells of the waves that give the ship its name.

It’s all a display of the shoal’s wealth, their power. But knowing that doesn’t stop it from being intimidating, when you know what sort of trolls you’ll be dealing with for the night. For longer, if anyone takes an interest in your investigation- you can only hope that the whole scandal of it, of your existence here, keeps them at bay.

It’s a flicker of a prayer you hold close to your pumper as you exit in to another massive room. Not the court proper, not yet- it’s populated by the trolls-in-waiting of the Court, the same rank as your courier. It’s the incubator for the next new members of the Court, where they learned how to truly sharpen their claws on those of their own level.

Politics- you’d never understand it. But you knew it when you saw it, and the room was saturated in dozens of little power plays, the shuffle of trolls in some grand social game where nothing was considered sacred. Trolls either played the game or spent their lives at the bottom of the food chain, bait for the next trolls to tear apart.

But whatever gestures are going on, they fall short when your presence amongst their schools is noticed. The hush stretches, too many unblinking eyes focused on you- but your guide holds her head high, passing through the throngs like an heiress herself. You wonder just how much her own status will rise from being your courier.

It’s not a question you’d dare ask, but it plagues you as you follow her to the other end of the hall, towards pearlescent stairs that raise up to grand golden doors. The Court itself lay beyond them, you didn’t need an interpreter to know that.

You’re still a few steps behind her, so when she throws out an arm to stop you at the top of the steps you’re able to stop before you come into contact with her. “My lady knows that we’re here,” she tells you as she drops her hand to smooth it over her skirts, pulling them from the cling of her leg. “The butcherald saw us arrive, and is inside to announce you to the court.”

Satisfied with her appearance, she turns to you for one scrutinizing moment before she smiles, wide enough to crinkle the smooth grey of her skin under her eyes- but there’s no warmth in the flatness of her gaze. “You’ll present yourself properly to our Princeps,” she says, words quiet- like a hiss, a snake warning of the danger approaching, “or our shoal will tear you apart. And I’ll be first in line for your heart, for embarrassing both me and my lady. If I was in your position, guppy, I’d watch myself.”

There’s no arguing the steel-sharp edge of her words, even if you could speak. There’s not a part of you that doesn’t believe she’d do just as she said she would, and the knowledge settles over you like a shroud. As if you needed confirmation of what you already knew, and so vividly.

The only mercy the universe seems to have for you is that you aren’t forced to dwell on it for long before you could hear the call of an instrument on the other side of the door- a call to attention, for all to witness the outsider in their midst. To see you.

But like a fish on the hook there was no way to escape. You could only follow the line, and hope that when they took the steel from your mouth, they tossed you back in to familiar waters.

As you stepped forward in to the Court, you begin to realize how little comfort there would be in the analogy for you on this mission.


	2. Swimming With the Big Fish Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The movers and shakers of the world can be dangerous- a whale cares not for the worries of the a herring, unless it needs a meal.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Shout out to the members of BWIC for helping me with character voice! You guys rock.

If the court-in-waiting had been sharks, you’d just entered the den of krakens. No, of leviathans- you’d never before been among so many seadwellers before. It’s a sea of violets and fuchsias waiting for you as you pause for a moment at the top of the stairs that descend into the court.

 

You don’t think you’ve ever stepped somewhere so grand before. Below you, the marble bricks give way to a glittering mosaic in the floor, countless species of fish inlaid into the floor under the feet of dozens upon dozens of seadwellers. Your guide moves forward with a barest of gestures for you to follow, but it takes a fair bit of your control to force yourself onwards.

 

The weight of so many eyes pins you, like a butterfly to the board. You have to pretend as if this was a night back at the academy, schooling your features like you did so many times then- no emotions, head up and eyes forward. The more sure you seemed of yourself, the better. As long as you didn’t slip over into arrogance, that is. You're too low to allow for that.

 

The shoal is arranged by sections, you remember that much from your classes on the political sciences. Nearest you are the lowest ranks allowed entrance, the ones who had clawed their way in to an esteemed position by the skin of their teeth. Theirs is the most precarious position of the Shoal circles, at the mercy of the whims of the rest of the shoal and from each other. Their gazes feel predatory, but you can't help but notice that that look isn't just for you- it lingers on your guide as well, at the attention that both of you are getting right now.

 

Your guide notices it too. Her chin raises just a bit under their stares, fins spreading just a bit- they can't go too far, hobbled by the cuffs, but she still tries. You suddenly wish you weren't the tool being used for her new elevation in status, but you're aware that no one from the group will lash out at you for it. Not now that is, with the Princeps still awaiting your visit. You just watch the crowds from the corners of your eyes as you walk down the center of the grand halls, taking it all in as carefully as you could.

 

Things weren't just separated by how far back they were from the dais, but how away from the path you walked they were forced. The trolls closest to you now were visible to those who passed by- they could catch the eye of a superior if they were lucky, they could catch the going-ons. From where you were, the ground rose in staggered levels, the buoyancy of water allowing for an easy way up and down from the highest platforms. They allowed the lesser members of the shoal a perch in which to watch from, but socialization seemed relatively isolated to their own tiers.

 

The further you went, the more ornate the trolls around you got. Middling royalty was easy to identify when you got to them, the fin cuffs abandoned to allow fins to grow free- though still adorned with gold, hoops and chains that drifted in the water. Gold glints all around you from hundreds of sources, hundreds of pieces of jewelry that each wear as a symbol of their power. Just one of their outfits probably costs more than your hive, you realize with a detached sort of concern. And they weren't even the trolls you were going to have to deal with.

 

Not with the dais up ahead, flanked only by the highest of the court. The crowds are thinner here, but that causes more anxiety than it could possibly soothe. These were trolls that had centuries on you- millenia possibly, for some of the highest. They had secured their places in the Empire with their deeds, with blood- they made policies, they spearheaded assaults that had helped bring alien nations under their heels. They were not trolls you wanted to cross, and even the casual glances that any deemed fit to give you as you pass by sends ice down your spine.

 

It speaks to your training that you don't turn and run right now. Training and the knowledge that all running would gain you is an undignified death, one that would be passed to your Corps as a brand of shame. You'd been given this mission because you were the best troll for it- and you wouldn't disappoint them now.

  
  


The dais has been a cultural touchstone for hundreds of lines, as far back as any could imagine. Even the earliest histories of the first Empress' grand unification spoke of how she pulled the planet under her control until all who opposed her lay prostrated before her throne, their kingdoms crushed and rebuilt under her. Hundreds upon hundreds of portraits had been painted of that scene over the sweeps, until it had been burnt in to the fabric of history like a brand. One of the most ultimate displays of the power of seadweller superiority, and thus the focal point of any Court worth the salt in their veins.

 

And the behemoth before you was a testament to the craft. You're no seadweller, to judge on the merits of a Court, but you have enough of a visual eye to be impressed at how they manage to skirt the line between expensive and gaudy. It's a trap too many trolls fall victim to, but though it glimmers as much as everything else you'd seen, it has the dignity that such an area should.

 

Your guide steps up the stairs with you by her side, up on to the small landing still far below the actual throne. Or was it thrones? You don't quite dare look up too far ahead, but there seems to be more than one shape waiting up there, looking down at you. Your guide pulls herself in to the deepest curtsy you think you've ever seen from a seadweller before, her skirts thrown wide around her- you follow her example with a bow of your own. You were drilled extensively in all matters of courtesy and manners- you know just how deep you're expected to bow to the royalty that has requested your aid, how to show that you're here at their disposal but that you still had the Empire's blessings at your back. It could be a flimsy excuse against their wrath, but only if you were fool enough to give them a reason behind it.

 

"Princeps, I have done as you have requested," your guide calls out, voice suddenly so demure for a troll who had moments before promised to rip out your pumper. Her eyes are low, reverent, but you keep your own facing forward towards the stairs in front of you. You were no member of his Court after all, but a forced diplomat. He did not have your allegiance.

 

"Oh, well done, Icespear," a voice calls from above, warmer than you would have expected- it almost sounded genuinely happy, enough that you might have believed it if you didn’t know the source of the words. But for all your wariness your guide can't quite hide just how much the praise effects her. Her head dips again, but freezes as the same voice sounds out again. "Now, be a good girl and get back to the others on waiting? That's a dear! I'll be sure to call, now, if there's a need." There's no arguing here, and she knows better than to try. She drops in to a curtsy again for the trolls above before she turns and abandons you- and just when you'd finally gotten to know her name as well.

 

Leaving you alone, the sole object of attention from the highest of the shoal’s court.

 

“You may approach, Scimitar,” another voice says, deeper than the first and with the sort of inflection in their voice that lets you know this is a troll that expects to be obeyed. The Princeps himself no doubt, and though you’d prefer to stay where you were, you made yourself rise up the rest of those stairs. The silence of the court is deafening, all attention focused on the dais, on you as you climbed it step by step, unsure even of what they wanted of you.

 

But ahead was the main landing, before the stairs that lead to the thrones. This one wasn’t unoccupied like the first, and as you stepped onto the platform properly the troll in front of you moved to block the stairs, eyeing you up with instant, clear distaste.

 

A quick glance into her eyes was enough insight to guess just why she hated you on sight. Her irises are fully pigmented with her bloodcolor, and compared to your own… Your chromes are close. She’s a cusp or close enough to one, just managing to fall on the other side of you by virtue of having functional gills.

 

She has the lean, easy build of a fighter, all muscle coiled under the thinnest of seadweller blubber. In any other environment, you think she might have suffered- that's not the make of a troll of deeper, colder waters. Her dress still speaks of seadweller sensibilities, but there are things you notice innately, from that part of your hindbrain that always recognizes the threat in any strange troll who comes near. All of her fabric drapes out at the waist, behind her- as out of the way as the fashion allows, and with only bare hints of her chrome here and there. There's no long sleeves to get caught on weapons, and even the jewelry she wears speaks of both luxury and danger- her hands gleam with netted links of chains and gems, a full-hand bracelet that you're sure could catch a blade if she had the need for it, long golden claws wrapped around the natural keratin in a promise of an edge.

 

Her face is lean, enough that the high rise of her cheekbones stands in stark relief without much need for makeup to draw them out. It's the sort of edges that Iconic always carries on about being attracted to- if your kismesis was here, you have no doubt he'd be more than interested in her.

 

You'd personally find her more attractive if she wasn't glaring at you like you had personally delivered to her the carcass of her lusus.

 

"That's far enough," she drawls out, the words rolling with an accent you don't recognize. Perhaps an added dialogue from an alien race she'd had to communicate with- it hits in odd highs and lows for your language, off-kilter in a way that feels vaguely uncanny. The full arch of her upper lip curls, just barely- with her back to the throne and the rest of the crowd far below, you know it's a gesture that only you were meant to catch, as her eyes go from your fins to the respirator across your face. "The Princeps can see you just fine from here." 

 

Who are you to argue with that? It's almost a relief to be down here, despite her hostilities. But just as you think it there's a shuffle above you, the soft tinkle of metal through the water. "Stand down Viscount," the commanding voice calls again, and you're certain now that it must be the Princeps himself. And the guard- the Viscount, you correct yourself- just tightens her jaw just a bit at the command. It's a momentary display of a temper, smoothed almost so quick that you could have imagined it as she steps to the side. Angling her body even then as if she's prepared to fight you if given the word, feet angled towards you. A smaller target, standing that way- you know a troll ready to spill blood if they were given a reason.

 

"My apologies, my Princeps," she says, head bowing her acquiesce- but her eyes don't leave you. Around her, her braids spread in the water like the tentacles of some great seabeast, tied back from her face but still allowed movement in this atmosphere. You don't want her at your back, so primed and ready as she was, and you make sure to hold her gaze as you step past her to show that her display wasn't enough to scare you off. In hindsight, perhaps not your smartest move, but some part of you rebelled at the thought of acting demure in front of a troll that was almost a match for your chrome.

 

The trolls up ahead are another matter entirely. You let your eyes drop as soon as you climb high enough to see the thrones- three of them, you realize now. Perhaps the Princeps' quadrant-mates were allowed to sit up with him? But with his position you would have expected him to have a full set of squares, not merely half. You remind yourself quickly that it's not your job to wonder about the status of your superior's quads, and as you finally reach the top you bow again, wondering if this will be the end of it.

 

Unfortunately, you should have known that that just wasn't going to be the case tonight. You keep your eyes low as you straighten, but the trolls in front of you are too quiet. All you can see is the gleam of gems embedded in to the stone at your feet, all of them a deep fuchsia that borders dangerously close to Imperial Tyrian. If the Princeps had been female, he might have had to worry about fighting the Empress in the heiress battles- as it was, he and his line were awarded the planetship. If only-

 

"You're supposed to present your wrists," the Princeps tells you, his voice angled low and tinged with something approaching humor, and oh. It takes every inch of your self control to keep your face from betraying the sudden flush of embarrassment you feel, but you can feel your fins give up. They pin against your head and you think for a moment that it might not be a bad idea to throw yourself to the Viscount and her sharp claws. At least she would probably make it quick in a way that Icespear wouldn't have.

 

But how were you to know to present your wrists? It's a horribly dated custom, best left to the movies of pre-Conquest eras. Only among the Seadwellers would such a thing still find an audience more than willing to accept such an old-fashioned display of submission. You certainly had never been called to do it before, though you'd read plenty of recounts of how it was done- the lowerblood offering their wrists to a superior, bare with hands empty, a supplication for mercy. Traditionally, acceptance meant lips pressed against the veins, brutality put aside for allowance. You certainly didn't want to risk your wrists so close to any seadweller's mouth, but you realize that there's no choice- and you had to act now to stop yourself from making anyone look the fool.

 

He hasn't risen from his throne, so you find yourself kneeling down to be at the proper level. The submission in the act rankles- you feel too exposed, your back to a Court of unknown trolls, your head lowered to the most dangerous of them all in front of you. It burns like bile at the back of your throat as you raise your wrists up to the lights that stream in from above, and your only security is in the fact that the metal of one wrist means that if he slices you, you'll be able to hold out for longer. A primitive sense of security, but you're currently engaged in some very barbaric practice- what better time for it?

 

Your hands spread wide as you raise them- unarmed, undefended, suddenly feeling so frail and vulnerable in a way you're unused to. All your life you've been honed to be a weapon, so why now do you falter? Is it the lack of your support, so far away from the trolls who care for you? Is it this unknown territory, the demands put upon your shoulders? You resolve to find a way to regain your footing as you entreat with your body for recognition of your power, your abilities. You don't feel humbled, you feel stripped raw.

 

And when cold hands dip under your own to lift them higher, it feels like ice. You'd been in contact with Fuchsias before, but nothing can quite prepare you for the chill that comes off of them, so cold it almost feels like heat. You can't resist but to glance up at the Princeps you're imploring political mercy from, carefully. Up through your eyelashes, while the attention is away from your gaze and focused on your hands.

 

It's quite a sight to see. The Princeps is the crown jewel of his shoal, and there wasn't an inch of him that didn't shine with its splendor. You didn't let your eyes linger for too long- it's a quick glance up, eyes catching on the ornate crown that rose high over his head, made of twisted gold in the form of tentacles writhing in to shape above him. From where it rested against his brow, thin golden chains fell in a shower around his face, each ending in a heavy golden bead to keep them from flying about with every motion of the current. It hid the top half of his face away behind the gold, leaving his chin and lips bare- lips he was bringing to your wrists, you realize in a burst of awareness. Far too slowly for your liking he kisses first the thinner plating of your metal wrist before he brings them to the flesh of your other one.

 

You can see your pulse in your wrist, jumping with the quickened pace of your pumper. He must notice it as well, but how many times must he have received bowed horns and offered wrists? You’re sure you aren’t the first to worry about the strength that lay behind his lips, nor would you be the last.

 

His lips are cold on your flesh, but the press of them is thankfully brief. You resist the urge to pull yourself away from him the moment he releases you, the chill of him still clinging to your hands, but as you begin to rise you take a moment to look up at him again. Risky perhaps, with his attention on you- you catch a glimpse of his eyes behind the chains, gazes locking for a brief moment before you pull your eyes away. He doesn't react to the accidental brush, lacquered hands returning to the scrolled arms of his throne as you slowly rise. At least you're spared from having to worry about how to address him with the respirator blocking your mouth.

 

"Oh, lemme get a good look at you sugar," a voice croons from your left, and you're ashamed to realize that for a moment you had forgotten that you had more trolls to worry about than just the Princeps. You straighten your back a bit stiffly, unsure for a moment on what to do with the command. Was turning away from the Princeps an insult to him? But you doubt any member of his shoal would try to disgrace him by fooling you, so you finally turned yourself to face more towards the source of the voice, keeping your eyes up this time to see just who it was addressing you. You had the Princeps blessing on you now, it would allow you this much.

 

She seems to expect it from you as well, since the moment you look up at her she smiles, wide enough to make the wrinkles in her face deepen. You've seen older seadwellers before- through both work and your quadrants, who just can't seem to stay away from the ancient trolls. It's hard to really tell just how old she is, seadweller ages are always tricky- but her eyes and fins are true Violet, so you judge she must be under a thousand sweeps. Her hair is just beginning to lose its colors at her hairline, fading in to silver grey that peppers in to the darker mass of her ringlets. Still a troll with hundreds of sweeps left ahead of her, as long as nothing strikes her down.   
  
She's full-bodied under her dress, an elaborate thing made of iridescent violet material and decorated with golden chains that drape about her like a cape made of fishnet. She strikes you as friendly, but that's an unsettling realization when you take note of her power here. "Now aren't you just  _ something _ !" She says, hands clasping together, and- you aren't sure what that something might be in her mind, the way she says the word. You do know you're feeling rather judged as her eyes sweep over you, the click of her tongue sharp in your ears. "My goodness gracious, they sure do keep you soldiers fed in the Scimitar barracks, now. Such a strapping young man!"

 

Hidden by the respirator, you allow your lips to thin with your indecision, starting to become more sure that whatever her goal was, she was playing with you. You duck your head, once more glad that you weren't expected to speak- you don't think there's a response to that sort of a greeting.

 

From the corner of your eye you catch the shift of movement from the right, just before there was a tsk, sharp with disapproval. "That's enough Grimfear," calls a third voice, words crisp and tinged with something close to irritation, "before you confuse the poor thing. My Princeps, if you would? We still have trolls of our actual court to hear before the night is done."

 

“Oh, I’m just picking,” Grimfear protests, waving a hand in the direction of the other troll. But she falls silent after, so you turn your attention to the third and final troll as she leans back against her throne.

 

She’s not looking at you- you think. But there’s goggles strapped to her face, smokey lenses that obscure the direction of her eyes. But behind the cloudy glass you can see an odd glow, like they’re lit from within, and realization hits you in a wave.

 

Deep-seadwellers aren’t that commonly seen. They have liberties that most others don’t, so far under the waters of Alternia that no drones could possibly hope to reach them to bring them under the same rules as the rest of your species. There were supposed to be whole cities deep down in the depths, uncaring of the Empress’ rule- with such freedoms, most chose to stay down in their territories.

 

With the adaptations that allowed them to live down there, you couldn’t always blame them. You’d read up a lot on the different changes trollkind could make, back when you were questing for a scientific reason behind your fins and your vestigial gills. You’d done your fair share of research about how varied seadwellers could be, so long-lived and yet adaptable to whatever aquatic environment they were thrown in to.

 

Very little light shone in the deep, and so seadwellers that lived down there had had to adjust. Eyesight was often forfeited in a realm where it offered very little, replaced with heavy bioluminescence to make locating one another easier and to lure in prey.

 

Among other adaptations, you amend once you get a clearer look at her. Those who couldn’t rely on eyesight alone developed other ways of sensing the world around them. Like the small holes in her skin you can see in front of her fins, right behind her jaw, and down further, hidden by her clothing. Sensory organs much like what you could find in an actual fish, able to sense movement and changes in the water around her. She didn’t need to be looking at you to know exactly where you were and what you were doing.

 

“Right,” the Princeps murmurs, waving his hand towards you. “We are glad that the Empire has sent its finest to Us,” he says, voice louder- meant to carry down to the throngs of trolls below. “Consular, please see to it that he has a room. We wish to be a gracious host to Our Fleet- have someone drain the chambers closest to Our quarters for him and dry it out, those are Our wishes.”

 

You’re shocked by his decree, enough that you almost miss the rest of his words- only thoughts of your survival make you pay attention. “While he is here, he is Our Most Esteemed Guest. We expect Our Court to show him nothing but Our hospitality to its fullest.”

 

There’s a clattering of applause from behind you, and you realize that there’s little you can do about this- you can’t throw back the Princeps’ kindness in his face, not if you wanted to walk out of this place. But why bother with keeping you so close? Did he plan on monitoring you during every step of your mission, dogging you and making things impossible?

 

“Oh, we just never have enough guests come by,” Grimfear coos, clapping her own delight. “Now, since he and Icespear have gotten on so darn  _ well _ , why don't I just assign her to him? Make sure the poor dear has somebody to rely on, because I am just  _ sure _ he hasn't got the slightest clue on how to conduct himself in a court.” She makes a soft sound, oddly sympathetic as she rests a bejeweled hand against her chest, over her pumper. “It's just.. well, I'd hate to see him go and make a  _ fool _ of himself, over some little bit of misunderstanding.”

 

“Might as well,” the other woman- the Consular, perhaps?- says, clearly growing impatient. “My staff is too busy to play jademinder regardless- no offense meant, my Princeps,” she adds, but it sounds like an afterthought. She turns her head towards Grimfear and you’re close enough to notice how under her smile, her jaw sets just a bit as the deep-seadweller continues. “I’m just so happy to know that our Archidux has so much free labor at her disposal.”

 

You’re a bit unnerved by the hostilities going on in front of you, but as Grimfear opens her mouth to speak, the Princeps raises a hand. Just the gesture is enough to stop both women, both lapsing back into silence to listen to him speak. “Your accommodations are noted, Archidux. Make it so. Consular? We have made Our opinions on such bickering known.” He turns his head towards her, chains clicking as his voice lowers. “Do not defy Us again.”

 

The Consular’s features pinch in, just slightly, before she bows her head to him. “My apologies, my Princeps,” she murmurs, and though you don’t know her well at all the words sound sullen. “It will not happen again.”

 

There’s a nod returned to her, and when he turns away it’s almost like he had forgotten you were there for a moment. His body tenses, fingers gripping the arms of his throne before he relaxes. “We will see you again later, Scimitar. We hope that you will find things to your liking- and if there are any troubles, you will bring them to the Viscount below.”

 

He pauses for just a moment, and you can practically feel the way he examines you. “Someone find him something more proper to wear as well,” he tacks on, leaning to rest his chin on his palm so that he can tap a golden claw against his jaw, just below the fall of chains. “And a proper respirator. Something that will allow him to speak to the Court.”

 

Your insides feel like they’ve been filled with a roil of eels, all fighting to find a way out. The Court seems like a prison now, one that you had been willingly led in to. Unaware that the door was swinging shut as you did. And the Princeps didn’t seem concerned at all about playing with your mission, your life like this- he gives a dismissive wave of his free hand, mind obviously already somewhere far from you and your troubles. “You are dismissed.”

 

And no matter how hot it burns at you, no matter how you feel the noose tightening around your neck, you do the only thing you can do:

 

You bow to him.


End file.
